


Cold, Dark, and Alone

by NatashalieLumley



Category: Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: My First AO3 Post, Some angst, allusions to rape, no idea how to tag, set in Caliphas, that's a tag wow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatashalieLumley/pseuds/NatashalieLumley
Summary: I came up with this idea for the backstory for my Pathfinder character during the adventure we're on and simply had to write it.Zhalia hasn't had the easiest life, but there's usually a silver lining, or a rescue of some kind. At least, up until the Betrayal. Now, she is in the same place as before - alone in the cold and dark.(There are more happy moments than sad moments, but it does end on a only-somewhat-hopeful note so be warned - no HEA here.)





	Cold, Dark, and Alone

**Author's Note:**

> As in the tags, there is an allusion to rape - Zhalia rescues a young woman from a group of men. I never say what exactly they were doing or had plans to do but just in case it's enough to trigger someone, I wanted to give you a heads up.
> 
> I would appreciate a comment, even if it's just one word, but kudos are also good too. But even if you don't do either, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

It was cold. It was dark. She was alone.

Zhalia didn’t used to be alone. She remembered sitting by a cozy fire with her father, learning about her heritages, her cultures… her mother. Their house was small, some might say cramped, but she had enjoyed the knowledge and security of knowing every inch of it. When she’d been small, it had felt absolutely palatial. As she’d grown, she’d wanted nothing more than to keep growing - grow until she could reach the high cabinets, see over the counter. (Of course, once she was big enough for those things, she wished she could shrink again - fit inside the cabinets for games and ride on her father’s shoulders. She was still fairly young when she understood the concept of “We always want the opposite, at least until we get it”.)

She hadn’t quite been fully grown when It happened. She was still a gangly teenager, all knees and elbows and poor balance, longing for the day it would even out and she would be as graceful as her mother was in the stories. She had come home from a market outing only to trip over the coat-rack. She hadn’t even gotten up before she’d seen her father.

The neighbors told the guards later that her wailing had been so loud, they’d thought a banshee was nearby. It was only when they clearly heard the words “No please, not Papa, please” that one had realized a tragedy had already taken place. By the time the guards arrived, Zhalia was found with silent tears running down her frozen face. She had to be helped up and led from the scene. Even with an investigation, and an attempt to find the stolen objects, no suspects were ever found.

Time seemed to move strangely after that. She had to sell almost everything, including the house, to pay for the funeral and afford food. One neighbor after another offered to take her in for a time, only to send her on her way when the cost became too high. Eventually she was on the street, spending the coldest nights in various abandoned buildings, and doing odd jobs for coin to pay for the things she couldn’t steal. After the first year or so she had finally grown into her joints and could walk and move as gracefully as she’d ever imagined. Of course, as is the way of things, she very quickly wished that it hadn’t changed.

There wasn’t much danger in the daylight. While Caliphas would never pass as “safest city in Golarion”, she managed to stay among the populace with little fuss. It was in the darkness that trouble came.

It was cold. It was dark. She was alone.

They approached her on a foggy night, blocking her as she hustled her way back to the building she’d set up camp in. With one hand weighed down with her pilfered dinner, she couldn’t quite go on the offensive. Still, she put her hand on the hilt of her dagger (her father’s dagger) and eyed them as impassively as one could while waiting for the familiar taunts and… propositions.

Instead, the one in the middle lowered the hood of their dark cloak and put empty hands, palm down, in the space between them. He asked if she had a home. A needless question, as she refused to answer and he apparently knew the answer anyway. He offered her safety, a place of warmth, a family of choice. He said that she needn’t accept right away, and she could change her mind at any time, but wouldn’t she come for at least one night, out of the snow?

She had agreed, but on her own terms. They gave her an address, offered to lead her there. If she wanted to get her things first one of them could help. This she refused. She might need this hiding spot again, and whether they knew it or not she had at least one more nearby. Instead, she continued on alone. She packed up her camp, leaving no trace of her presence, and dropped a secret bundle in a secluded place nearby. Then she headed off, finding the address with little trouble. She was greeted warmly by the same trio, who seemed unaffected by her guarded behavior.

The bedroom was warm and comfortable. The main meeting room was bright and always occupied by at least one person. Even more importantly, she never found reason to be afraid. They gave her odd jobs to do as a way to pay for room and board, and once she ran out of things she knew how to do they simply taught her new ones. By the end of winter she had learned how to fix various household objects, how to create with crafts like knitting, and even odd skills like how to control a crowd without raising her voice.

On the second official day of Spring (as the first had been filled with unofficial celebrating), she was approached by the same man as before. She had since learned that his name was Jamack, and he was the leader of the gang. Jamack acknowledged that she had learned and grown quite a lot during the season, and though she was free to leave if she wished, he could see a future for her here, perhaps at the head of the table.

It was with astonishment and, perhaps, a hint of joy that Zhalia realized she had no desire to leave. She had friends, a safe place to sleep, and things to look forward to. She eagerly accepted Jamack’s offer, and was extremely pleased and touched when everyone cheered at the announcement that evening.

It was cold. It was dark. She was not alone.

Another year had passed when Jamack approached her with (yet another) new task. He revealed that they had found a young woman squatting in a building not far from where Zhalia had last camped. This woman, he said, would not react favourably to being approached by men. He asked Zhalia if she and two other women of her choice could go meet this lonely figure and extend the same offer Zhalia had accepted not that long ago.

Zhalia accepted the task eagerly, chose her companions, and went out into the cold. She carried a dim lantern and proceeded quickly through the dark. She was glad for the speed (and company) when they approached their quarry’s camp only to find said quarry being assaulted by a pair of men. The men were quickly dispatched, less some bodily fluids and with some new facial marks. The woman appeared puzzled by Zhalia’s offer, partially because it was a kindness she hadn’t been offered in a long time, and partially by the name. She accepted Zhalia’s explanation readily enough, though, sensing the truth of the statement - The Forlorn were named on a promise. They need never be alone again, never be forgotten.

The woman, Aster, was a fabulous addition to the gang. In the years to come she became everyone’s favorite chef and talking partner. Zhalia was sent on more missions after such an initial rousing success, and though not all of them ended so well, she made a name for herself on her ability to read a situation and hand out street justice.

Zhalia also continued to grow in rank. Although she never planned on becoming leader (a fact that had Jamack jokingly expressing relief), she became well-respected and eventually began to be called “Jamack’s Left Hand”. Others would come to her with minor issues, or to ask if she thought the Captain should be bothered. While she made the occasional misstep (especially at the beginning), she was always reassured that few situations were unsalvageable.  
Unfortunately, she was not the only one rising in the ranks. Jamack’s official Lieutenant (his Right Hand Man, some said) fancied himself ready to take leadership. He swayed some of the others, convincing them that Jamack had led long enough. Rather than risking an epic showdown or extended battle between sides, though, he decided to use subterfuge. Zhalia later realized that she should’ve been more suspicious when conversations began to fade whenever she walked into the room. Perhaps then she would’ve been able to stop Jamack from taking that fateful drink, or at least she could’ve been in the room to enact immediate justice.

As it stood, Baric was firmly entrenched by the time she and the rest of the unswayed finished taking care of their fallen leader and his last wishes. Some of them wanted to go to war against those loyal to the new leader, but Zhalia managed to convince them against such acts, believing that unity was more important. A few left, unable to stand the changes.

Time passed. Missions grew more violent. Stealing from the marketplace or other city dwellers became so commonplace that it was a lauded talent rather than a punishable offense. More and more schisms occurred. Eventually, Zhalia decided that the gang, her family, were no longer truly The Forlorn. And with that, she decided to act.

In the end, it was easier than expected. While Baric didn’t trust her as Jamack had, she still had more freedoms than some. She used those freedoms to enter his office while he was alone by convincing his hungry guards that it was a shame they were missing dinner, why didn’t they go eat and she would stand for them. They were both so grateful that neither noticed the slight bulge of a throwing knife under her sleeve.

(It happened quickly, before he could truly react. She opened the door. She aimed. She threw. She was gone.)

When the guards returned, it was to an unsettling sight. The door was open. Baric was sitting in his chair, head tilted back. If the throwing knife hadn’t been sticking out of his forehead, it almost would’ve seemed like he was lost in thought. Equally disturbing was the later realization that the knife had belonged to Jamack, and that its twin was stuck upright on the desk, securing a piece of paper. In Jamack’s handwriting was a note declaring that, to his everlasting disappointment, The Forlorn were disbanded. The house and everything inside was left to Aster, and the gold was to be evenly distributed between them.

Opinions were conflicted as the last orders were carried out. While all agreed that Zhalia’s body had been used to strike that final blow, some argued she could’ve been possessed by Jamack. Others said that she had stolen the knives and forged his handwriting. Still others said that Zhalia had found the note and used it as a call to action. None of them dared ignore the order, though. By the end of the following week, The Forlorn were no more. Some left the city entirely. Some found housing together, and a few lived alone. None were left on the streets - That had been part of the promise, after all.

Many of them speculated as to where Zhalia had disappeared to. They claimed to spot her all over town. They theorized that she had taken the lion’s share of the gold (a popular guess among those who had no knowledge of Baric’s embezzling), and decided she was set up in a nice house somewhere. A few went on the hunt, wanting to “return the favor”, as they said. But still, none thought to check near her last known camp.

Zhalia had better equipment now - an actual tent, warm blankets, and other odds and ends. She also had plans to find a home of her own, once Baric’s most loyal had cooled off. Perhaps a job, with all the knowledge she had accumulated. She didn’t want to steal if she could avoid it. There was always Aster, loyal to the end and most likely willing to provide food, but such a move could put them both in danger. And so, as Zhalia lay curled in a warm blanket, holding the ocarina that had once belonged to her dearest friend, her tent pitched in the middle of an abandoned building, she mused to herself - 

It is cold. It is dark. I am alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise that Zhalia ends up in a better place, although I haven't actually gotten a chance to work out the details lol. Currently she's the bouncer at the local inn and sometimes performs there because she's still learning how to be a bard, and she occasionally does adventures for coin.


End file.
